]]>https://miskpad.wordpress.com/2013/05/19/day-23-counting-knots/feed/0miskmaskAprPAD Day: 22 The Earthiness of It Allhttps://miskpad.wordpress.com/2013/05/15/aprpad-day-22-the-earthiness-of-it-all/
https://miskpad.wordpress.com/2013/05/15/aprpad-day-22-the-earthiness-of-it-all/#respondWed, 15 May 2013 12:32:22 +0000http://miskpad.wordpress.com/?p=181The Earthiness of It All

Worms never scared me never turned me into a girlie-girl. I loved them – their twisty curly bits that swirled J shapedhooks off the end of my finger. I loved that they lingered and lounged wrapped around my thumb.Earthy jewellery. Nature’s ornaments.And they were also damned useful for fishing.

]]>https://miskpad.wordpress.com/2013/05/15/aprpad-day-22-the-earthiness-of-it-all/feed/0miskmaskIf Only For An Instanthttps://miskpad.wordpress.com/2013/05/10/if-only-for-an-instant/
https://miskpad.wordpress.com/2013/05/10/if-only-for-an-instant/#respondFri, 10 May 2013 08:34:54 +0000http://miskpad.wordpress.com/?p=178IF ONLY FOR AN INSTANT

Will I think of you when the wind howls and waves break white as surrendering hankies, or will I think of you when the sun breaks clouds

and dances on new leaves, green with childlike abandon. What is it that brings you into my thoughts; what senses spark a memory of you.

I thought I saw you yesterday, if only for an instant, speck glint dust caught in the sunlight, ploughed rough in the neighbour’s field. You were dressed

like spring, chasing bluebells through tangledhedgerows, and then you were gone. Again.

You are a fleeting memory, a spark that lingersand flickers, and survives in the shadows of song. And I miss you like the day is eternally long....

]]>https://miskpad.wordpress.com/2013/05/10/if-only-for-an-instant/feed/0miskmaskA Room with Winter Sunhttps://miskpad.wordpress.com/2013/05/09/a-room-with-winter-sun/
https://miskpad.wordpress.com/2013/05/09/a-room-with-winter-sun/#commentsThu, 09 May 2013 14:21:05 +0000http://miskpad.wordpress.com/?p=175We’re here for a visit. Brought two cakes and what cheer we can. She’s been here three years, the same amount of time that she’s been blind,

the same amount of time that she’s lost her will to live. She’s tried three times, and three times she’s been stitched back up. Now she sits

in her room, floods of winter sun warming her back and yet she sits in the dark, in blackness without sight, not caring.

‘And I don’t even have the heating turned on,” she remarks. We chat, she chats – economics, banking, politics, but no

mention that we just buried her sister’s ashes today. The late afternoon sun dances on her face, shadows set

into deep wrinkles ploughed by age. She’s a sundial casting shadows. And we eat cake, cut into neat squares by the nurse.

No one is allowed to touch knives here. Nor scissors. No cords on drapes. And in between sips of tap water and bites of cake

she says, ‘It’s a struggle growing old,’ and I can’t but agree, although I’m twenty-years her junior, and then she says,

‘Living like this is pure hell.” Without emotion and matter of fact, stating facts as facts. And what do you say

to a statement like that. So we nod and clear our thoughts with more cake talking long into late afternoon. The sun casts

deepening colours that track the time, and we offer the nurse one more piece of cake but she declines, taps her watch, saying

that it’s time for goodbyes. The cake is packed up by the ward nurse, and taken away, where I don’t know, but suspect

that the nightshift will swarm on it and then lick the plate clean. I can but only agree; living like this is pure hell.

...

Written in Denmark 28 April 2013. This is written based on real events and prompted to Joseph’s Recursions prompt #21. This piece does not follow a specific form, but I have restricted its rhythm and confined it ‘spread’ to an 8.8.12 count per stanza with 3 lines per stanza (reflecting the Taoist belief that the number 3 symbolises death, not specifically of a person, but perhaps a belief or way of being). Recursion Prompt #21

]]>https://miskpad.wordpress.com/2013/05/09/a-room-with-winter-sun/feed/4miskmaskAprPAD Day 21-22, A Place in the Universehttps://miskpad.wordpress.com/2013/04/22/aprpad-day-21-22-a-place-in-the-universe/
https://miskpad.wordpress.com/2013/04/22/aprpad-day-21-22-a-place-in-the-universe/#respondMon, 22 Apr 2013 19:18:09 +0000http://miskpad.wordpress.com/?p=166A PLACE IN THE UNIVERSE

It’s an unhappy thought, being next in line. Parents gone, moved on, leaving you next on that revolving wheel. One falls away, leaves a cog to be filled, round we merrily go, and yet we’re profoundly surprised and unprepared for the day when we jump free from our cog on that wheel...Written for Recursions: Day 18 – The Big Wheel Keeps on Turning

]]>https://miskpad.wordpress.com/2013/04/19/aprpad-day-18-we-merrily-go-round/feed/4miskmaskAprPAD: Day 19, Strung Out on a Guitarhttps://miskpad.wordpress.com/2013/04/19/aprpad-day-19-strung-out-on-a-guitar/
https://miskpad.wordpress.com/2013/04/19/aprpad-day-19-strung-out-on-a-guitar/#commentsFri, 19 Apr 2013 08:41:54 +0000http://miskpad.wordpress.com/?p=160STRUNG OUT ON A GUITAR

Mama thought everything changed after he was hit by lightning. He swore off the weed, dismantled the still, turned away his fleshy needs, and steeled his will. Now he wiggles his fingers and flexes his arms, and drapes himself around the neck of this favourite guitar – Daddy’s entangled and strung out in love with its song. But he says a vice by any other name is still just a vice, but he reckons there’s no harm in being drunk on a song...Written for Miz Quickly’s Prompt Day: 19 “Wish you were here”

I am gagging for a cup of tea, my feet are lagging behind my knees, my eyes are nagging for a kip o’sleep, my tongue is wagging like a wilted leek, my lips would beg if they could speak,please, I’m gagging for a cup of tea!..

18 April is Poem in Your Pocket Day, and I’d like to share one of my favourite poems with you. It’s an engrossing tale by Charles Dickens called “The Song of the Wreck”. For more info, pop over to Miz Quickly’s April Prompt blog.

THE SONG OF THE WRECK By Charles Dickens

The wind blew high, the waters raved, A ship drove on the land, A hundred human creatures saved Kneel’d down upon the sand. Three-score were drown’d, three-score were thrown Upon the black rocks wild, And thus among them, left alone, They found one helpless child. A seaman rough, to shipwreck bred, Stood out from all the rest, And gently laid the lonely head Upon his honest breast. And travelling o’er the desert wide It was a solemn joy, To see them, ever side by side, The sailor and the boy. In famine, sickness, hunger, thirst, The two were still but one, Until the strong man droop’d the first And felt his labours done. Then to a trusty friend he spake, “Across the desert wide, O take this poor boy for my sake!” And kiss’d the child and died. Toiling along in weary plight Through heavy jungle, mire, These two came later every night To warm them at the fire. Until the captain said one day, “O seaman good and kind, To save thyself now come away, And leave the boy behind!” The child was slumbering near the blaze: “O captain, let him rest Until it sinks, when God’s own ways Shall teach us what is best!” They watch’d the whiten’d ashy heap, They touch’d the child in vain; They did not leave him there asleep, He never woke again.